


leaving

by swaeger (machogwapito)



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 02:22:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2756027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machogwapito/pseuds/swaeger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron's reaction to Chris leaving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	leaving

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for a [prompt](http://treemurderer.tumblr.com/post/104061205008/i-wanna-do-some-drabbles-im-leaving-my) on tumblr. could count as pre-slash if you squint. god knows that's what i aimed for, honestly.

The day Chris tells him about Michigan, Ron does nothing but nod his head, place a hand on the man’s shoulder, and tell him he’s made a good decision.

There’s honour in being there for your son and his mother that Ron recognises and respects. It’s how he and Diane work with John, and he understands. Regardless of the fact that Chris and Ann hadn’t had a child through natural means, Chris still has obligations as a father. The circumstances matter little in comparison to the child itself.

It occurs to Ron a few days before Chris has to actually leave that he’s known the man for four years. In those four years they’d gone to lunch together, engaged in failed meditation, and even played Cranium. In those four years he’d convinced Chris to drink alcohol, poisoning the man’s body in some futile, quiet way. In those four years Ron had nearly become his assistant city manager—and more than that, he’d built the man a crib and taken him under his wing for woodworking.

Most days Ron tells himself he doesn’t need anyone. This is an obvious lie, but it’s one he knows how to keep up without making it look _too much_ like a lie. His world isn’t going to collapse without Chris there to be in it. It’s not as if Chris Traeger is his very reason for living— _God_ , no.

But it occurs to him somewhere in the middle of having lunch in his office, eating his second burger and looking at his oversized glass of soda, that he’ll miss the man’s enthusiasm. Just a little.

As the days pass Chris comes to visit him maybe a bit more frequently than he used to. Ron sees the tell-tale pistol fingers, the bright grin on the man’s face, and he hears the customary ‘Ron Swanson!’. On almost all these occasions he groans because that’s what he does. Except for the one time he actually offers a rigid smile back and says ‘hello’.

The way this affects Chris is one that Ron hadn’t expected. Chris’ eyes widen and his mouth opens and this bright, ridiculous grin appears on his face. But more importantly, it looks like his eyes are tearing up, and he offers another (weaker) ‘Ron Swanson’.

On that day Chris stays a little while longer even though Ron isn’t particularly kinder, and when he says ‘goodbye’, Ron feels as if there’s something else there.

The night before Chris leaves, Ron’s given a bronzed hamburger trophy. It’s ridiculous and an immense waste of money, but he takes it in good taste and shakes Chris’ hand. The other men they’re friends with attempt to think of gifts to give to him and Ron insists that his handshake had been good enough.

But he knows, really, that it isn’t. It just isn’t in his caliber to say so out loud.

The morning Chris is leaving, Ron helps him move his things to his furiously environmentally friendly car. He carries boxes and tries not to feel too emotional over the fact that Chris is taking the crib Ron had made him two to three months prior.

He doesn’t treat the man special, not even when he feels Chris’ eyes on him and he knows Chris wants him to look back. Ron says goodbye with the rest of them and lets Leslie cry, and he doesn’t watch as Chris drives away in his efficient little vehicle.

Tucked away in Chris’ box full of health supplements, however, is a sealed pack of honeycured bacon and a note.

> 'You're a good man, and I'll miss you.  
> Ron Swanson’


End file.
